One of Those Nights
by RionahAnha
Summary: . It's one thing, one after the other after the other. Not for the first time, Dean wonders just what the hell he thinks he's playing at here. DeAged Sam. Rated T for language.


**Disclaimer: **I wish.

Dean has this one nightmare, this one recurring dream that keeps him from sleeping some nights. It's not like when he dreamed about hell- those terrors seem so distant, so far removed from the life he lives now that he can almost brush them away.

This is a different kind of terror, this new dream. It's a routine- several nights a month he wakes, cased in cold sweat, at one, two, three in the morning. He lies in the dark and shivers and watches the glow of the nightlight in the hall flicker across the walls.

It starts out nice. Something sweet, memorable, familiar- washing the Impala with Sam at his side, waving to Sam as he disappears into the throng of school yard children, sitting on the porch at sunset, he with a beer and Sammy a popsicle or snow cone or whatever has taken his fancy that week. It's always some activity that Dean has come to treasure. Some miniscule, day by day routine that others would brush by. To him, these moments are everything.

It moves quickly. The moments flash by. Dean watches Sam transform before his eyes. He grows taller, ganglier. He fills out, fits his shoulders and shoes and hands. For the second time, Dean watches his baby brother grow up-

And then it stops.

In an instant, grown up Sam, with his dimpled smile and shovel-like hands and abnormal height are gone, shrunken back to what Dean found in that bed, five years ago now: Sammy, swimming in clothes that don't fit him, a child with tiny uncoordinated fingers and no memory of the man he had been, just the day before.

In his nightmare, Sam never grows older than twenty five years old. He's doomed, stuck in a constant childhood that loops on and on and on. And Dean is powerless.

When he wakes up, Dean goes to check on Sammy. He knows it's ridiculous, that Sam is fine, that he's growing, but that doesn't stop him from sneaking into his brother's room and laying a hand against the young boy's mop of curls. He's nine years old now, for the second time, and it's these nights that Dean feels the most hopeless, the most confused and the angriest. Every day he wonders if he did the right thing, giving up the hunt. He wonders if he could have found a way to fix things, if Sammy could have been _his _Sam again, if he had just tried a little harder. Would Sam have been better off?

He can't say.

Its summer, which means temperatures sky rocket past one hundred before noon and the air conditioner works over time to keep the house cool. Sam, for all of his brains and book smarts, can't seem to grasp the concept that one old flea market find isn't enough power to cool an entire house. Dean sighs when he finds the door at the top of the stairs left open, for the tenth time that week.

"Sam, man. Come on."

Sam looks up from where he is draped over the couch, book in hand. He isn't much bigger now than he was at seven, but he's got all the attitude of a three hundred pound linebacker, and _that's _the thing that's always got Dean on his toes.

"The door. How many times do I have to say it?"

Sam shrugs one shoulder. "Sorry. I forgot." He goes back to his book and Dean sighs, again. He's been home less than five minutes and so far he's sighed about a dozen times.

"How was work?" Sam asks after a minute. Dean moves past him, stepping over the Legos that are scattered over the wooden floor.

"Fine."

The kitchen is mostly clean, except for the dishes piled in the sink. Dean squeezes his eyes shut, counts to ten. "Sam."

There's no response.

"Sam."

The silence is jarring.

"Sam-"

"_What_?"

It's that huff that drives Dean up a wall. He bites his lip, turns back to the living room. Sam is watching him over the back of the couch. "I thought I asked you to do the dishes today."

"Sorry." His head disappears again. "I forgot."

He's always forgetting something. Dean waits a moment- for what, he's not sure- before saying, a little louder this time, "Sam."

"_What?"_

It's too much. He didn't just spend all day in a hundred and six degree garage to come home to a whiny little brother and a pile of dishes in the sink that should have been done last night. He crosses to the couch in a few short strides, reaches over the back of it, grabs the book from Sam's hands, and slams it shut. Sam is on his feet instantly, his face flushed with anger.

"Dean, what-"

"Dishes." Dean points with one finger to the sink. "Now."

Sam's face turns downwards. When he doesn't move, Dean adds, warningly, "Sam."

"Is that the only word you know?" Sam asks snarkily. He stomps around the couch, and Dean has to physically restrain himself from stooping to Sam's level and saying something rude back. He watches as Sam stomps to the sink, drags the stool over, turns the water on. He pours more soap than is necessary in and grabs the sponge. His thin shoulders are set and rigid. Dean recognizes the stance; he's ready for a fight. Dean doesn't have it in him to give one tonight.

He goes upstairs, where it's positively stifling. He runs the water cold in the bathroom and splashes his face and neck with it. He scrubs away the grime of another long, fruitless day, watches it swirl down the drain. He tosses his t-shirt into the hamper, lays his work jeans over the back of the chair in his room. He re-dresses himself, panting in the heat. Maybe, if he can break even this month, he can afford another air conditioner…

He goes back downstairs, where Sam has the dishes stacked neatly in the rack and the Legos cleaned off the floor. He's on the couch again, his book clutched in his hands. He doesn't acknowledge Dean as he walks by.

Dean opens the refrigerator, stares at its contents. Normally, he likes cooking. He figures he's making up for Sam's other childhood, when they ate Lucky Charms and macaroni'n'cheese every night. Today, though, he can't even muster enough energy to group ingredients together in his mind. He wishes he had enough change left over from last week's check to order a damn pizza.

"What do you want for dinner?" He calls hopefully, but Sam's surly "I don't care" sets his teeth on edge. He grabs the bag of chicken, lays a few pieces on a pan, pops it in the oven. He puts water on to boil on the stove for some noodles and, grabbing a bottle of Snapple from the fridge, steps outside onto the back porch.

It's witheringly hot. Dean stands in the shade of the porch roof and sips his Snapple and sweats. The backyard is a mess- his tools in a corner of the porch, Sam's bike in the middle of the yard, balls and toy trucks and a couple lonely action figures strewn about. Clothes hung to dry on the chain link fence; the broken clothesline stands pitifully alone in the corner. The broken clothesline reminds him of the broken dryer in the basement. It's one thing, one after the other after the other. Dean squeezes his eyes shut, presses the cold bottle to his forehead. Not for the first time, he wonders just what the hell he thinks he's playing at here.

Behind him, the door creaks open. Sam is in the doorway, barefoot, his book still in his hands. "Um- the water's boiling."

Dean nods. "Thanks."

"Want me to…"

"No. No, I'm coming in." Dean swallows the last of his drink and chucks the bottle into the recycling bin at the foot of the porch stairs. He turns and steps back through the doorway, back into the blessed cold of air conditioning. It takes him back to their first summer here, when their first air conditioner shit the bed and they slept on the floor in the living room to stay cool. He doubts Sam would be caught dead doing that now.

Sam stands awkwardly in the kitchen. He fingers the spine of his book and shifts his wait from foot to foot. Dean pours the noodles into the boiling water, one eye on his brother. He knows that look. "What'd you do today?"

Sam shrugs. "Just read." When he offers no other information, Dean cocks an eye brow at him.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." Sam scratches the back of his head, licks his lips. "Can we go to the library after dinner?"

What he really wants to do after dinner, Dean thinks, is fill the bathtub with ice and drink a six pack in it. He'd like to lay back on his couch and watch TV. He'd like to maybe give Diannah a call, maybe go to sleep early. But Sam has that damn kicked puppy look on his face, so he nods and agrees.

Dinner is a quiet affair. Sam picks at his noodles, pushes his chicken around on his plate. He doesn't touch his milk. Dean watches him with growing concern. Is it just him, or does Sammy look a little paler than normal?

"You sure your feeling all right, Sammy?"

"Sure." Then, as if to prove his point, Sam takes big bite of chicken, forces it down. Dean isn't convinced.

After dinner, they drive to the library. The sun is still up, but it's a little lower in the sky and some of the oppressive heat of the day has been driven away in the anticipation of night fall. Sam is silent almost the entire ride, his stack of library books balanced precariously atop his knees. Dean listens to the radio and tries to ignore the elephant in the room.

At the library, Sam goes off to the kids section and Dean meanders around. He's not much of a reader, but he always finds himself in the folklore section. He leafs through a few books, studies a couple rudimentary depictions of things he's actually seen: wendigos, chupacabras, a raw head. The books are cut and dry, boring; the pictures don't do the creatures justice. Dean puts the book back on the shelf, shakes off the memories. When confronted with his past, there are some things that he is glad Sam can't remember.

He looks for Sam and finds him waiting in line at the check-out counter. He's got an armful of books and is talking with a girl, a skinny blonde that towers over him in her pink plaid sundress. Dean recognizes her as Mallory, a friend of Sam's from school. She smiles at him.

"Hi, Dean," she says cheerily, and Dean smile back. Mallory is one of the few kids Dean can stand. He looks at his brother, catches sight of Sam's glowing face, and has to fight off a grin. Is this the reason for this trip to the library tonight, this gangly blonde girl with freckles and skinned knees?

Mallory checks out her books and leaves, smiling good bye at Sam. Sam waits patiently while the librarian stamps his books, then follows Dean back out to the Impala. He slides quietly into the passenger's seat, buckles, and doesn't say a word. Dean stars the engine, waits for Sam to tear immediately into his latest selection of books, like he always does. When the books remain closed and Sam's eyes remained glued to the window, Dean really starts to worry.

It's only a little after seven and the sun has shifted its position a little, but Dean knows it will be hours before it's dark enough to drop the temperature. He's already dreading a night of sweat stained sheets, and the fact that Sam's acting weird makes him think he has a long night ahead of him. He pops open the ashtray, rifles through the change inside of it for spare bills and quarters. Sam watches him with ill-concealed curiosity.

"Want an ice cream?" Dean asks, and Sam shrugs.

"I guess."

Dean almost wants to just forget about it and go home, where he can send Sam to his room to stew away in his own bad attitude and misery, but Dean knows that that route involves a lot of shouting and arguing, and that's just something he doesn't feel up to. Besides, Sam hasn't changed all that much since he was a kid the first time. Dean knows how to knock him out of a funk, and ice cream is the way to go.

He swings the Impala into the parking lot at the Ice Shack. It's a dingy yellow shed, accessible only by a pick-up window. There's a short line; apparently, even the prospect of home-made ice cream isn't enough temptation to draw people out of their houses and into this heat.

Sam leaves his library books on the seat of the Impala and stands next to Dean in line. He says hi to a couple of kids that he recognizes, but otherwise remains silent, picking at a hang nail on his thumb and kicking at a couple of small rocks. Dean makes small talk with the man in front of him, who he knows vaguely as an outlying rancher, and tries to ignore Sam's tense silence at his side.

They order and sit at one of the dusty picnic tables at the edge of the parking lot. There are no umbrellas and Dean can feel the sun on the back of his neck, like a physical presence he can't shake off. Sam sits beside him and swings his legs. Even at nine, his feet have yet to reach the ground. He licks the rim of his cone, where his black raspberry is threatening to run down his hand. Dean gives it a few minutes, then nudges him.

"What's up with you, Sammy?"

Sam shoots him an annoyed look. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" Dean raises an eyebrow; Sam blushes and looks away.

"I'm fine." He squirms uncomfortably. Dean knows that look, recognizes that funny hitched quality to Sam's breathing. He steels himself for the confession-

"Dean, when am I gonna start growing?"

Dean blinks. _That _was it? "Dude, Sammy, I don't know-"

"I mean…" Sam coughs, looks pointedly at his sneakers. "I mean, was I this small before?"

It's a 'before' question, and Dean feels himself seize up a little inside. He hates these questions, these conversations. It's Sam's desperate attempt to piece together the puzzle he feels he is; to fit who he is now into who he used to be. It's useless, Dean wants to tell him. Sam doesn't remember a thing, besides a vague shadowing that may the presence of his father. Dean's not even sure why Sam believes the story.

"Dean?"

Dean shakes himself. "Yeah."

"Yeah, what?"

"Yeah, you were." Dean feels his throat tighten at the memory. Sam's lost so much, and he doesn't even know it.

"When did I get bigger?"

Dean remembers exactly when. The year he turned fifteen he shot up like a weed, cycled through two or three shoe sizes. He doesn't want to tell Sam this, though. He doesn't know that things are going to proceed exactly like they did before; he's not about to fill Sam's head with false promises. He shrugs.

"I don't really remember, Sammy."

Sam heaves a silent sigh. His ice cream is melting over his hand, but he doesn't seem to care. "I'm probably still going to be the smallest in my class next month." He scowls. "Even all of the _girls _are taller than me."

Dean wants to tell him not to worry, that in ten years or so he's going to be roughly the size of a small house and he'll never have to worry about anyone being taller than him, ever again. But the words stick in his throat. He doesn't want to go this route with Sam, not tonight, when he's so tired and his defenses are so weak. Sometimes, the memories are a glancing slight, and sometimes, they are a crushing weight. Tonight is one of those times.

Sam eats his cone and licks his palms clean. He ignores the napkins Dean holds out to him. His moment of vulnerability has passed and he's back to being that snarky, rude little kid he was at the beginning of the night. He wipes his hands dry on his shorts and, without a word, goes back to the Impala.

At home, Sam stacks his books neatly on the rickety table next to the armchair. He has six new ones. Dean figures that'll get him through at least the rest of the week. He hopes the library gets some donations soon, or Sam's going to have a miserable time of it next summer.

The dishes still need to be done. Dean goes to the fridge, gets a beer. He settles onto the couch, takes off his boots, turns on the television. He melts backwards into the second hand upholstery, feels himself relaxing. Sam sits in the arm chair and says nothing, does nothing, but pick at a scab on his knee. Dean turns his attention to the television, wills Sam to just get up and do his chores for once without having to be badgered into them.

Of course it doesn't happen. Sam moves onto a scab on his elbow and Dean sighs. "Sammy, man, you gonna do the dishes or what?"

Sam shrugs.

Dean can feel his pulse rising. He rubs a hand over his mouth, wills himself to calm down. "Sam."

Sam rolls his eyes, and, with more noise than is necessary, throws himself out of the arm chair and stomps into the kitchen. A chair scrapes, the water chugs on. Dishes clatter in the steel sink. Dean grits his teeth, tries to focus on the television screen. The characters have no meaning for him anymore. His beer tastes flat and warm. He rests his head against the back of the couch and closes his eyes. What he wouldn't give, he thinks, for a day off- from work, from reality, from responsibility. He's sick of playing the parent, being the bad guy. He loves Sammy, he really does, and over the last few years he's adjusted to what his life is now and what it's going to be, but he still has those days when he wants his brother back, the one he could drink beers with and pick up girls with and talk about life with. Today is one of those days.

Sam finishes the dishes and comes back into the living room. He won't look at Dean. He has water stains on the front of his t-shirt and somewhere along the way, he's lost his socks and his shoes. Dean has no doubt that he'll find them under the table or somewhere else that they're not supposed to be. Sam keeps his back to him and slowly gathers his library books into his arms.

"I'm gonna put these in my room," he says carefully. Dean looks at him. He looks so pitifully small, standing there with his back bowed under the weight of an armful of literature.

"Okay."

Sam hesitates, then starts for the stairs. Dean turns back to the television, but the clock on the wall next to the door catches his eye. Seven fifty five.

"Sam, get in the shower after, okay?"

The footsteps stop. Dean turns to catch sight of Sam, half way up the stairs with a belligerent look on his face. He steels himself for the onslaught.

"I showered last night-"

"And you sweated today-"

"I didn't _sweat_," Sam interrupts loudly. "I didn't sweat because I didn't _do _anything. I lay around all day and didn't sweat because there's _nothing _to do here!"

Dean sits forward, rests his elbows on his knees. His back hurts. He feels old, all of a sudden. "Sam, just get in the shower, okay?"

Sam glares a moment longer, then rolls his eyes. "Whatever," he mutters, and stomps up the stairs. Each step rings in Dean's ears; he has half a mind to follow Sam up the stairs, read him the riot act for his behavior, for the stomping and the eye rolls and that nasty attitude that he's not supposed to really start developing for three more years at least…

He doesn't. It's not that he doesn't care about Sam's attitude- he does, and he's going to sort that out, if it's the last thing he does- but a part of him empathizes with his little brother. He remembers the terrible boredom of being cooped up, of being left behind while his father went out on a hunt, went to work. He gets what Sam's feeling, what he's trying to say. What he doesn't get is why the attitude has to follow it along.

He gets up and pours his beer down the sink. Sure enough, Sam's socks and sneakers are under the table. Dean gets a Snapple from the fridge, decides to let them be. Let that be another battle for another day. He returns to the couch, flips around until he finds a game, and settles back to watch.

It's a good fifteen minutes before he realizes that he has yet to hear the shower turn on. It's eight thirteen and Sam is supposed to be getting ready for bed. Its summer time, so Dean doesn't have to be as strict about bed time as he usually is, but still. Sam's gone from disrespectful to flat out disobedient and that, Dean decides suddenly, is enough.

He starts up the stairs, pushing to the back of his mind the whole ridiculousness of the situation. He used to be a hunter, a boon to society; now he's enforcing bedtimes and good behavior in a washed out ranch town in the middle of Arizona, and some days –like today- it rubs him the wrong way.

The bathroom is empty, as he knew it would be. It is stiflingly hot upstairs, a good thirty degrees warmer than the air conditioned living room. Dean, preparing himself for the battle he is about to instigate, steps into Sam's room and is surprised to see his little brother spread across his bed, eyes open, sweat encasing his body. His head jerks around when Dean enters.

"Dean," he says in a small voice, "I don't feel good."

Dean sighs and stops next to the bed. Sam turns big brown eyes on him. His face is flushed. Dean reaches down, brushes wisps of dark wet hair off of his forehead.

"How? Your stomach hurt?"

"Yeah." Sam looks away. "Dean, I just wanna sleep, okay?"

He should have seen this coming. Sam's been off all night long. Dean scrubs a hand through his own hair. "You been sick all night, Sammy?"

"I don't know." Sam closes his eyes. "A little."

"What'd you eat for lunch?"

When Sam tells him the chicken salad he found in the bottom drawer, Dean knows he's in for it. He meant to throw that out yesterday, when he remembered that it was there. "Sammy, that shit was like two weeks old."

"So?"

"So? So it's not good. It went bad." Dean steps back. "It didn't smell bad?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know what it's supposed to smell like. I never had it before." Sam rubs his hands over his stomach, squeezing the fabric of his shirt between his fingers. "Please, can I just go to sleep, Dean? My head hurts."

Dean wants to bury his head in a pillow and scream, like Sam does when he gets sent to his room. All he's asking for, he thinks desperately, is one goddamned night where everything goes right. It's a ridiculous hope. Even before this happened five years ago, nothing ever went his way.

Dean takes a quick moment to assess Sam. He's flushed and pretty much drowning in his own sweat, but he doesn't look like he's running a fever- yet. He can handle this. Food poisoning is not a particularly favorite past time of his, but he knows what to do.

He sighs. Sammy looks pitifully up at him from the bed. His earlier surliness is gone, replaced by _that _look, those big, pleading brown eyes that implore Dean to do something. To take care of him, ease the pain, fight away the monsters. It's what Dean does. It's what he's always done.

"Come on." Dean reaches down, helps Sam into a sitting position. Sam fights him immediately.

"Dean, I just wanna sleep-"

"I know, kiddo. I know. But it's too hot up here, okay? You're going to make yourself sicker if you lie here." Dean smoothes Sam's hair back, off his forehead. His little brother leans into the touch. "Come lie downstairs on the couch, okay?"

Sam whimpers. "The couch _sucks_."

"You'll feel better if you do. I promise." Sam sighs, slides off of the bed. He stands there limply, leaning against it.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I _really _don't feel good."

Dean helps Sammy down the stairs and to the couch, where his little brother tucks himself into a ball and stares blankly at the television screen. He barely moves when Dean slips a pillow under his head. He looks so small, so helpless and pitiful, that Dean is brought back to that first time he saw Sam like this, huddled in that Missouri motel room with his thumb in his mouth.

Dean leaves Sam on the couch and goes back into the kitchen, where he puts away the dishes, takes out hamburger to thaw for tomorrow night's dinner, and contemplates taking Sam to the ER in Strawberry, since the clinic downtown is already closed. But it's a forty minute drive and it's not as if Sam is dying. Dean can take care of him.

He rifles around in the plastic container he keeps on the top of the refrigerator, well out of Sam's reach. He finds a bottle of children's Tylenol and pours a couple into his hand. Armed with the medicine and a glass of water, he makes his way back over to the couch and crouches beside his little brother. Sam stares blearily at him.

"Here. Sit up." Dean helps Sam raise himself upright, then folds the medicine into his hand. "Chew these, okay? And drink this."

Sam uncurls his fingers, stares at the tiny purple pills resting on his palm. "What is it?"

"Aspirin." Dean nods at him. "Go on. You'll feel better."

Hesitantly, Sam puts the pills in his mouth and chews. He scrunches his face and makes a gagging noise, but manages to swallow. "Dean, these are _gross._"

"They're not gross. They're grape." Dean hands him the water. "Drink."

Sam takes a few sips, then pushes the glass back at Dean. Dean shakes his head, rewraps his brother's finger around the cup. "All of it, Sammy."

Sam shakes his head, tries to draw his hand away, but Dean holds to it fast. "Dean, I don't feel good-"

"I know you don't, but you need to listen to me, okay?" Dean tugs on Sam's wrist, draws Sam's attention back to the glass of water. "You're going to get really sick pretty soon, and I'm not having you dry out on my watch, you got it? Its drink this or the minute you start puking, we're going to the hospital."

Sam's face falls. "Dean-"

"And they'll put you on an IV. You want that?"

Miserably, Sam shakes his head. He puts the glass to his lips and slowly drinks every last drop. When he is done, he hands the glass back to Dean and lies back down, but he doesn't look at the television. He faces the back of the couch and covers his face with his arms. Dean squeezes his shoulder, then stands and puts the glass back into the kitchen.

He goes upstairs and opens all the windows. Outside, the sky is burning up with the sunset, in the way that only Arizona can do. He takes a moment to watch the day fall back behind the horizon, to marvel at it. He's spent his whole life on the road, has seen everything there is to see, but nothing, in his mind, can match an Arizona sunset.

The temperature outside has dropped to below a hundred. Dean figures that a few more hours and it will be bearable to sleep upstairs. He changes into a pair of sweat pants and a muscle shirt before going back downstairs. Sammy is sleeping on the couch, his arms dangling over the side and his head tipped back against the arm. It's chilly, with the air conditioner, so Dean drapes an afghan over him before going into the kitchen.

There's still some chicken salad left in the fridge. He throws it out, container and all, then ties off the trash and lugs it out the back door. The trash can is outside of the fence, the lid unclasped, where it's not supposed to be. Dean reminds himself that he can't be mad at Sam for shirking his chores right now. He's sick. He'll kick his ass later.

He drags the trashcan inside of the fence, where the coyotes can't push it over and throw garbage all over the yard. He locks the gate, puts the trash inside of the can, and makes sure the lid is clasped. He crosses the darkened yard and goes back inside.

He thinks about calling Diannah, then decides against it. It's nice to hear her voice, every night, but tonight, he is pre-occupied. Sam is still sleeping on the couch, but it's restless. He moves around a little, muttering something in a wave of guttural, sleep slurred syllables. Dean sits on the opposite end of the couch and flicks the television back on.

He must have dozed off, because when he wakes up the clock on the wall reads 9:47 and Sam is pulling on his arm, a frantic look on his face. Dean just barely has enough time to grab the wastebasket from beside the couch before Sam hurls.

When he is done, Sam lies back down and closes his eyes. He doesn't speak, but Dean knows how upset he is. Sam hates being sick, and, more than anything, he hates throwing up. Dean cleans out the waste bucket in the sink and brings another glass of water to Sam.

Sam whimpers when he sees the glass. "Dean…"

"Just a little, okay, Sammy?" Dean puts his hand behind Sam's head, holds him up as he sips at the water. Sam only manages a little before he pushes it away.

"I can't!" He moans pitifully. "Dean, it hurts so bad!"

"I know, I know." Dean puts the glass on the ground and leans on his elbows on the couch, his face just inches from Sam. He brushes his hand over Sam's forehead. Sam, for his credit, doesn't pull away. "Just try to relax, Sammy. Okay? Close your eyes."

Sam closes his eyes, but his face stays twisted up. "Dean…"

"Shhhh. I know, okay? I know."

Somehow, Dean coaxes Sam back to sleep. It is short lived; not fifteen minutes later, Sam is awake and vomiting into the trash can again. Dean holds the can in one hand and rubs his brother's back with the other.

When Sam is done puking, he rests his head against Dean's shoulder and says, softly, "I hate puking."

"I know you do."

"I'm never gonna eat chicken salad again."

Dean chuckles. "I didn't think so."

"I'm never gonna eat_ any_ chicken again. It all sucks."

Dean helps Sam lie back down. He offers him the water, but Sam rolls away from him, buries his head in the pillow. Dean covers him with the afghan and turns back to the television, but it's more by rote force than interest. All of his attention is on Sammy now. He rubs Sam's shoulder absently, with one hand, and is relieved when Sam drops back off to sleep.

Sam is up again before ten forty, vomiting miserably and shaking. When he is done heaving, he is crying, tears slipping slowly down his cheeks. He scrubs angrily at them with the back of his hand and refuses the water once again. He is sweaty and shaking, but cold to the touch. Dean goes upstairs, roots around in Sam's dresser for a pair of pajamas. He brings them back downstairs and passes them to Sam, who stares blankly at him.

"Change," Dean orders, and Sam somehow musters enough strength to roll his eyes. He opens his mouth, but Dean holds up a hand, cuts him off. "Sammy, dude, just do what I say, okay? You've been sweating in those all day. You'll feel better."

Dean waits for a repeat of their earlier argument – "_I didn't sweat because I didn't do anything because there's nothing to do around here!"-_but to his credit, Sam seems to finally get that he's lost and Dean has won. He slithers out of his shorts and t-shirt, climbs into the pajamas, and settles back onto the couch. He looks washed out, kind of grey and pasty. Dean decides to push his luck and offers Sam the water again. Sam doesn't even acknowledge him.

It is an all-night sort of thing, food poisoning, and it gets worse as the hours draw on. After midnight, Sam is sick consistently. He vomits until his stomach is empty and then still heaves. He gives up trying to sleep and just lies still on the couch with his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling and whimpers through the pain and nausea.

Dean sits beside him all night. He's exhausted. He's been up since six in the morning and the prospect of a night without sleep is purely terrifying. He puts a pot of coffee on and fills a glass with ice cubes from the freezer while he waits for it to brew. Sam looks at him with annoyance when Dean hands him the cup.

"I can't," he complains in a pitched voice. His hair is stuck to his forehead with sweat and his face is glossy with fever. It's after one in the morning and Dean is too tired to fight anymore.

"Allright." Dean turns on his heel and strides to the kitchen table, where he has to get down on his hands and knees to reach Sam's shoes. He returns to the living room with them in his hands and thrusts them at Sam, who takes them, blinking.

"Wha-"

"Put them on." When Sam does nothing, says nothing, Dean rolls his eyes. "Unless you want to be carried out, princess?"

Sam's mouth opens and closes. "Dean, I don't-"

"What did I tell you earlier?" Dean crouches down so that they're eye level, keeps Sam's confused gaze held in his own. "I'm not going to sit around and watch you dehydrate. You're putting out more than you're taking in, and unless you do what I say and drink the damn water, I'm taking you to the hospital." He watches as Sam's face moves from confused to annoyed to downright petulant. He stares down at the cup of ice, tightens his fingers around it, mutters something Dean doesn't catch. He feels his blood pressure rise.

"Something to say, Sammy?"

Sam jerks his head up. "I said," he snaps, "It's always what _you _say! Everything is always what _you _say to do. When do I get to say?"

It's not the first time he's had this argument with Sam. He's been having this argument for thirty years, and he's tired of it. Sammy doesn't know how much he wishes it wasn't what _he _says; how much he misses it being what _they _decided. He misses the brother that fed him ideas, backed him up, supported him. He loves Sam- he'll always love Sam- but sometimes the idea of playing this role for the rest of his life depresses him.

But that's not life. That's not his life. If there's one thing he's learned throughout all of this, it's that you don't always get you want. Sometime life just sucks; sometimes, all you get is a pile of shit and a shovel and there's nothing you can do about it except start digging.

Sam is watching him silently. There's still that look in his eyes, that defiance that Dean just wants to smack out of him, but he knows Sammy. He knows how to handle him. If he can't do anything else right, he can at least do this.

He sighs, runs a hand over his face. "Sammy, please."

Sam's not a bad kid. He knows when too far is too far. He sniffles, scoops an ice cube out of the cup with his fingers, and sucks on it. Dean watches him a moment before standing. He musses Sam's hair and goes to pour himself a cup of coffee. It's one-thirty in the morning and outside, the sky is black as ink. He switches off the kitchen light and makes sure the back door is locked.

On the couch, Sam is still sucking on the ice cube. His eyes are dull and he sags with exhaustion. Dean runs a hand over the top of his brother's sweat soaked curls. "Want to watch a movie?" He asks gently. He knows there's no chance in hell Sam is sleeping tonight. Sam nods weakly, and Dean puts his coffee on the ground next to the couch.

"Iron Man?" He asks. It's Sam's favorite, so he's not surprised when Sam nods again. He puts the movie in and turns off the living room light before settling back onto the couch. To his surprise, Sam forsakes his end of the couch and crawls over to Dean. He lays back against his brother and scoops another ice cube out of the cup. He doesn't say a word, but then, he doesn't have to. Dean covers him the afghan, sips his coffee, keeps one arm around Sam's shaking shoulders.

They have to pause the movie repeatedly so Sam can heave into the wastebasket. He's past empty, but still his stomach clenches and his shoulders shake. This is the part that Dean hates more than anything, when Sam's body rejects all comfort and there is nothing he can do to ease it. He's helpless, powerless.

The movie ends after three and still Sammy doesn't sleep. He lies back against Dean and plays absently with the hem of Dean's shirt. He doesn't speak – he doesn't have enough energy for that. Dean squeezes his shoulder. "Want to try some water, buddy?" he asks, and Sam shrugs listlessly. Dean goes into the kitchen, fills a glass from the pitcher in the fridge, and brings it back. Sam, Dean's earlier bluff of the hospital still hanging over his head, takes it and drinks it without any resistance.

"Want to watch another movie?" Dean asks, and Sam nods, his eyes big over the rim of the cup. Dean goes to the TV, ejects Iron Man from the DVD player, and twists to look over his shoulder at Sam. "Spider Man?" he asks, and Sam chokes, abruptly. Before Dean can even register what is going on, Sam has vomit all over his shirt front, the afghan, the couch.

Its takes Dean a moment to kick himself into gear. Sam clutches the cup, looks down at himself, and cries. Dean doesn't begrudge him the tears; it's three-thirty in the morning, Sam is sick as a dog, and he's _little. _Dean almost sort of wants to cry himself.

It's not crocodile tears like it was earlier- it's a full blown melt down. Sam is never at his strongest when he is sick – who is?- and this sudden turn of events is too much for him. He is a mess as Dean eases him off the couch, takes the cup from his hand, guides him up the stairs. He turns the shower on in the bathroom and peels Sam's dirty shirt off of him. Sam hiccups, rests his head against Dean's shoulder.

"I don't feel good," he whispers, and Dean chuckles, drops the shirt in the hamper, pulls back the shower curtain. The water is cool- not warm enough or cold enough to shock Sam's system.

"I know, Sammy," he says sympathetically. "Just jump in here for a minute, okay? I need to get you cleaned up." Sam nods listlessly. He doesn't look strong enough to hold himself up for longer than two more minutes. "You need help?"

"No, Dean," Sam murmurs. Dean exits the bathroom, but leaves the door ajar, cracked open in case he needs to rush in in a hurry. He finds another pair of pajama pants in Sam's dresser, but forgoes the shirt. It's still hot anyways, and Sam'll be easier to clean up without one.

He waits outside the door until Sam turns off the shower and calls weakly for Dean. He is wrapped in a towel, shivering bare legged in the tub. His teeth are chattering. Dean lifts Sam out, rubs his forearms to get some warm blood circulating. He leaves Sam to dress himself while he contemplates his next move.

His brain moves sluggishly. He hasn't been this tired in ages. He rubs the back of his neck, stretches, feels his back creak. When did he get so old?

The bathroom door slides open. Sam leans on the door jamb, his eyes heavy lidded. "I think I'm gonna puke again," he rasps, and Dean moves him the toilet, where he heaves over it with no success. Then he slumps against Dean and sniffles.

"This sucks," he whispers, and Dean laughs.

"Come on." He scoops Sam up. He's told Sam recently that he's too big to carry, but it's not true. Sam is still the tiniest kid in his class. He's no bigger than some of the first graders on the playground. He could carry Sam around forever, if only Sam would let him.

Dean tucks Sam into his own bed. Sam's room is smaller, stuffier, and further from the bathroom. The couch, now covered in vomit, is no longer an option. He draws the sheets up around Sam's chin, rests his palm against the side of Sam's face. He's burning up.

"Hey, man, you think you want to try some more medicine?" Sam groans, turns his face into Dean's hand. "You think you can be okay for a few minutes?"

"Where're you gonna go?" Sam asks weakly. Dean draws the wastebasket closer to the bed, tucks the sheets in under Sam's back.

"Just downstairs," he says quickly. "Just to clean up a little. Holler for me, okay?"

Sam looks away, his eyes wet. Dean knows it's because he's embarrassed about being sick, about throwing up on the couch and crying. He knows not to draw attention to Sam's vulnerability. It will only make things worse.

Downstairs, he throws the afghan and the couch coverlet into the washing machine and turns it on. He mops the floor, grabs a bottled water from the fridge and the Tylenol before turning off the lights and making his way up the stairs in the dark. Back in his bedroom, Sam is still awake. He sits up when Dean asks him to, chews the aspirin, sips the water. His eyes are red and watery. Dean flips off the overhead light and climbs into the other side of his bed, being careful not to jostle Sam.

"Dean?" Sam asks calmly, and Dean props himself up on one elbow.

"Yeah, Sammy?"

He can feel Sam moving around. He wants to tell him to lie still, but then Sam gives a big, hitched sob, and Dean reaches over, rests his hand on Sam's forehead. "Sammy?"

"I'm sorry."

Dean blinks. An apology is the last thing he'd been expecting. "You're sorry? For what, dude?"

"For- for being a brat." Sam digs his fist into his eyes. Dean sighs.

"Sammy, you're not a brat."

"Yes, I am. I always am and sometimes I do it on purpose be-because –" He breaks off, draws a shuddering breath in "- because sometimes I just want you to leave me alone and I hate staying home all day and I hate doing the dishes-" he hiccups, violently, and Dean shuffles in closer, places his palm flat against Sam's chest.

"Sammy, Sammy, come on, man. Calm down. You're gonna make yourself puke again." He can feel Sam's chest tightening and relaxing as he struggles to control himself. When he is quieter, his movements controlled under Dean's hand, Dean continues: "Sam, you're not a brat. Not all the time, at least."

"No, I'm always-"

"Sam, knock it off." He taps Sam's chest with his finger; Sam stills. "You're not a brat unless I say you're a brat, and right now, I'm saying you're not. So stop calling yourself names and try to sleep, okay?"

Sam sniffles. His fingers worm up, wriggle their way in between the fingers of the hand Dean has placed on his chest. "I'm sorry I got sick," he says softly, and Dean rolls his eyes.

"Seriously, Sam, shut up. This isn't your fault."

"It is. I only ate the chicken salad because I knew it was yours and I was mad at you."

Dean laughs abruptly. Sam hesitates, then adds, "I didn't even like it. It was gross."

"I'll say. It was two weeks old."

Sam crinkles his nose- Dean can just make that out in the dim moonlight filtering in through the window- then says, very quietly, "I'm sorry you got stuck taking care of me."

Dean is shocked into silence. Where in the hell is this coming from? He leans over Sam, sees his little brother turn his face away. "What the hell, Sam?"

"I mean- I just don't mean to be such a pain." He swallows. "I know you don't like taking care of me, because you already did it before, and I know I get in the way when you want to do other things-"

"Like what?" Dean is getting angry. Sam senses this, because he plunges on, his voice a shaky whisper:

"Like- go out with Diannah or go do stuff with your friends and you can't because you've always got me." He sobs again, stifles it with a palm. "I don't mean to be in the way. I can't help it-"

"Cut it out." Dean's had enough. He can't imagine where on earth his little brother's head is at, sick or not, for him to say something like this. "You think I think you're always in my way? Dude, that's ridiculous." He takes Sam by the chin, forces him to look him in the eye. "Sammy, don't you _ever _think that there is anything I would rather do than take care of you. You got that?"

Sam closes his eyes. "I didn't mean to throw up on the couch-"

"Stop apologizing for things that don't matter, okay?" Dean shakes his head, releases Sam's chin. "Save it for the next time you scratch the Imapala or something, all right?" He sighs, then, because he suddenly needs it, even if Sammy doesn't,rolls over and pulls Sam in closer to him. "And get that idea out of your head, that I don't want to take care of you, okay? There is nowhere I would rather be, anytime, than with you. Capiche?"

Sam squirms against Dean. "Dean-"

"Say it, dude. I'm not letting go till you do."

"But-"

"Sam."

Sam relents. "Okay," he says tiredly. "Capiche."

Dean chuckles and rolls onto his back. The red digital numerals on his alarm clock read 4:00 AM. He sighs. "Nowhere, Sammy." He starts in surprise when Sam suddenly burrows into his side. He relaxes, slips his arm under his little brother's head. "You gonna try to sleep now, bud?"

"Maybe," Sam answers drowsily. He rolls onto his side, flops an arm across Dean's stomach, and is out within seconds.

For a long time, Dean lies still and listens to his little brother's ragged breathing. They're not out of the woods yet, he knows, not by a long shot. Sam's still burning up and there's no doubt in his mind that the next twenty-four hours are going to require a clinic visit of some kind. He's going to have to call the shop in a few hours, let Tim know that he won't be in. There's probably not even the slightest possibility of some real sleep until tomorrow night sometime.

Sam shifts against him. Dean puts his hand on Sam's back and leaves it there. It's probably just the exhaustion, but he feels suddenly a little more grounded, a little more stabilized, by the sleeping kid at his side. There is nowhere else, he thinks foggily, that he would rather be than right here, right where Sammy needs him.


End file.
